On the Side of the Angels
by Mojave Dragonfly
Summary: Following the events in "On the Head of a Pin," Castiel deals with a dispirited Dean and his own fears.


Disclaimer: Kripke and CW own Supernatural, not me.

On the Side of the Angels

"It's not me," Dean Winchester said from the hospital bed, the despair in his words leaking out from every part of him. Castiel winced at that despair, his own certainty fragile to the brink of shattering. The Wrongness in the world, the Wrongness that it was part of his very nature to put right, now infected even the celestial plane. Uriel, his brother, his friend in every way allowed to them, had fallen. Had _murdered_ their sisters and brothers, each of whom had failed to defeat him, despite remaining righteous. As Castiel had failed. Uriel, the disobedient, should have been subject to any of them, but it was Ana -- herself still under sentence of death for disobedience – who ended Uriel's existence. This was all Wrong.

On the mortal plane, Dean Winchester, creation's best hope for survival, lay broken in body and spirit by the task heaven had set him. A task Castiel _knew_ would damage Dean, but he'd allowed it, insisted on it even, because he'd been told to distrust his closeness to Dean. What if that had been Wrong, too? Doubt, almost an angel's greatest sin, Castiel found was painful, as well.

Castiel moved around the hospital room and spread his awareness to the rest of the building, muting the blow of Dean's anguish by mixing it with that of hundreds of other souls. He placed one hand on the wall. Prayers for healing thrummed through the fabric of the place. If any were answered, Castiel did not know, for he was not assigned to any mortal but Dean Winchester.

"Why – didn't you tell me?" Dean rasped, still speaking from a spirit so low Castiel feared it might never revive. "You let me believe … believe I …" Castiel regarded Dean reluctantly. He felt no obligation to answer every question asked by his mortal charge, or even to respond in an expected human way. He communicated with Dean what was necessary to complete his mission. Now, he considered, was there anything he could say that would help lift Dean from despair? He'd already told him he was not to blame for breaking the first seal. Perhaps if he repeated it. Humans heard words through so many of their own filters that even the direct Word of God given to prophets was often edited.

"It did not matter. You were Lilith's tool. No human can withstand the torments of Hell, Dean. Not indefinitely."

Dean's face, bruised, mottled and wrapped in bandages, might have been difficult for a human to recognize, but Castiel saw mostly the spirit behind the flesh. Had he been limited to seeing only Dean's immobile face he would have been spared perceiving the intensity of the man's shame. "If I'd just held out longer …"

Castiel didn't reply. Guilt was one of the many barriers to understanding. He'd delivered his message and it had done no good. He increased the morphine in Dean's drip, sending the Winchester into sleep in a safely non-miraculous way. He needed to think, and, in truth, to heal. Both battles – with Uriel and with Alistair – while echoed in the mortal plane, had been truly fought in the celestial one, and Castiel had taken unseen wounds from both opponents. He'd been beaten in both battles.

He remained by Dean's side, however. Besides it being his proper place, he'd promised Sam he would, though the younger Winchester's distrust had lanced him. Beneath the demonic blot on Sam's soul, Castiel saw a man who had faith, but was losing it – more painful for an angel to encounter even than a soul who'd never known faith. Particularly since Castiel knew he was a large part of the cause, and that was Wrong, too.

He sighed a human sigh as he sank back into the chair beside Dean's bed. On his growing list of Things Which Were Wrong, he had to add Sam's ability to kill – _kill_ – Alistair. Alistair, who had existed for literal eons, was unmade by a mortal boy with forbidden powers. And just as it took an angel to kill another angel, there were precious few powers able to kill a demon – besides other demons.

_Uriel, Uriel, how could you have forsaken me?_

Castiel glanced at the unconscious Dean and took charge of his dream. He kept the landscape the same; still hiding them from any demonic retaliation for Alistair.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked, not noticing that he no longer had oxygen tubes in his nose and mouth or needles in his arm.

"We need to talk about Sam." Azazel's long term plans for Sam might prove more dangerous than Lilith's plans for Dean had, since they were still unknown.

"Where is he? Is he all right?"

Not the easiest of questions to answer. Somehow Sam Winchester held tightly to his humanity, though talking to him was difficult for Castiel, and felt surreal, as if he performed a charade of treating a demon as a human. "He's unharmed. He's gone to get some sleep."

"He left me?" Dean asked in a tone of dismay. Castiel would have preferred to hear outrage. He considered Dean for a moment before answering.

"The hospital doesn't let him stay, Dean, and you are under my protection."

Dean sat up, kicking white hospital sheets and a gossamer thin white blanket off of him. "Well, that's fucking reassuring," he muttered. "It's a dream, isn't it. A fucking dream."

"Yes."

Dean slumped, letting his legs slide off the bed. Castiel saw all his burdens return in force.

"I can't do this, Cas. I told you. Don't even go there."

Castiel had no intention of it, not at the moment. The question of how to restore the warrior in Dean Winchester would have to wait.

"How is Sam gaining strength?" he asked.

"Huh?" Even dream-Dean was not unaffected by drugs and exhaustion. Castiel practiced patience.

"What happened tonight. Sam didn't merely exorcise Alistair, he killed him."

"Yeah? Good for him. Now leave me the fuck alone."

Castiel moved to stand before Dean, looking down upon him. "Do you know how Sam grows stronger? Dean, this is important. He _killed_ Alistair, with little apparent difficulty. It has something to do with the demon who keeps his company." When Castiel was in close quarters with her she was an itch it was his very nature to scratch, and withholding divine wrath was a constant irritant.

Dean ignored him, either unable or unwilling to see anything but misery. "You should have told me." He stared at the tiled floor. "Is it true about my dad, too?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit." Dean still had insufficient spirit for anger. The accusation sounded merely tired. Castiel was weary, too. Weary just when things were increasingly Wrong. Just when he and Dean were most needed. He remembered Ana's warning about how terrifying it could be to choose your own course. It was too dangerous to cease the struggle now, for any reason, including Dean Winchester's anguish. Castiel had to answer him, had to try to keep his trust.

"Hell is a place apart," he said gently. "Heaven's forces can't perceive what happens there. Just as Azazel's taint obscures what's happening to Sam." Surely he could use concern for his brother to inspire Dean.

But Dean's fears for Sam were not new, and Sam was yet another thing he couldn't control. "So you don't know. You don't know much do you. What good are you?"

Castiel was out of answers. He departed Dean's dream to wait and guard. But Dean, ever surprising, managed to wake at that moment, defeating Castiel's attempt to evade him.

Through a damaged mouth burdened with tubes, he croaked, "What good are any of us?"

Castiel bowed his head and prayed.


End file.
